


A Fistful of Redemption

by thegrumblingirl



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, I haven't even finished the game but whatever dumb shenanigans is gonna happen I'm fixin it, M/M, Mutual Pining, rootin-tootin cowboy shootin, someone save me from myself, you say love triangle I say polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-17 13:13:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16517147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrumblingirl/pseuds/thegrumblingirl
Summary: “Jesus, Arthur, what did he say?” Dutch asks him later, when Arthur is holding a rag dunked in cold river water against his bruised jaw. John’s an idiot and a half, but he knows how to sting like a whole hive of bees.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> made a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/ama_23/playlist/6zlRoE3KQiWlF2UeE08g3C?si=w6LAe10iQAmzwdbLLkg-mQ) because I can't help myself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've only just started playing the game, and already I'm neck-deep in feels. This is the first new pairing I've written for in TWO YEARS, since I started writing for Dishonored, but ho boy am I back on my sad terrible cowboy bullshit.
> 
> Hope you enjoy this first chapter!!

“You know, John, you could really be a decent father if you bothered your own damn kid half as much as you do me!”

The words are out before Arthur can rear them back like a horse just before going off a cliff he’s seen too late. But the words and the horse go over, and so does he, and before he knows it, John’s thrown the first punch. And yeah, he thinks, he deserved that.

This isn’t where trouble starts, though.

Trouble started days ago, and weeks, and months. A year. Trouble started when Arthur had his heart broken not once, but twice, in the span of days. He hasn’t been right since, he’d hear Dutch say, or Hosea, depending on the time of day and whether they think he can hear them talking.

“You son of a bitch!” John cries while he draws his fist back for a second hit; and this time Arthur’s ready for it. He blocks and he hits back, and he doesn’t pull the punch this time. There’s blood on his knuckles and his vision’s as red as John’s blood on his skin, but it’s as far as they get before Dutch is on his back and Lenny on John’s, dragging them apart.

“Arthur, stop! You don’t wanna hurt him!” Dutch is bellowing, his voice straining with the effort of getting a good grip on Arthur. “Stop kicking, you damn stubborn mule!”

Arthur snarls and spits, but it’s John who’s frothing at the mouth, nearly escaping Lenny, who all but throws himself on him to get him subdued.

“Asshole!” And he’s right about that, too.

*

“Jesus, Arthur, what did he say?” Dutch asks him later, when Arthur is holding a rag dunked in cold river water against his bruised jaw. John’s an idiot and a half, but he knows how to sting like a whole hive of bees.

“You didn’t hear?”

“No. But your answer was loud enough for the entire creek.” Dutch puts his hands on his hips, looking a lot less like a cowboy and more like a disappointed father. “What happened?”

“He was naggin’ me about Mary,” Arthur eventually admits, sullenly. “Didn’t want me to go before I went, didn’t want me to have gone when I came back. Said it was a bad idea.”

“Well, you didn’t look happy when you got back from seein’ her,“ Dutch reminds him.

“Yeah, well, nothin’ about seein’ her now was going to end in me lookin’ happy,“ Arthur tells him, and it’s god’s honest truth. It’s not his fault. Nor, to be fair, is it John’s. But he won’t be caught dead saying that out loud.

“This isn’t about Mary, though, is it?” Dutch isn’t fishing — Arthur knows what that sounds like. “You gotta let it go, son.”

“Not you, too, Dutch,” Arthur pleads; and he _hates_ fulfilling the role of sulking son so perfectly, but here he is.

“You know, sometimes I think the two of you are holding on to that grudge so hard because it’s the only thing you know about each other anymore,” Dutch starts in one of his lectures.

“Don’t start with the philosophy,” Arthur groans, folding up the rag so the colder side’s on his cheek.

“Oh, philosophy is what you’re gettin’, son, until you can pull your head outta your ass!”

“What do you want me to do, Dutch?“ Arthur’s own voice is rising, now, and he’s too drained to care. Running is exhausting, fighting for their lives. Dutch always says that’s what the O’Driscolls do, just fighting for survival; and what they’re doing, trying to do, is _living_. It doesn’t much feel that way these days. Here, at the Overlook, they’ve had a brief respite, but they’re still looking over their shoulder at every corner. They’re still running odd jobs that keep them coasting just out of sight of the law. Arthur’s running bounties, for Christ’s sake, and the sheriff knows he ain’t a saint; but he doesn’t know what kind of sinner Arthur is, either.

Fighting is exhausting, too. The kind of fight you can’t run away from, because it’s in your head and your heart and everywhere you look. When John left, up and disappeared, the others were watching Arthur like hawks, gauging his reaction. After a while, they stopped, when they realised Arthur wouldn’t let anything through what they knew was his pain over Mary leaving him in the dirt. It was enough, already. John leaving… he dealt with that in ways he knew no-one could see. Abigail, perhaps, but then, she had a wailing infant pulling at her skirts and her own broken heart to nurse.

When John came back, just turned up one day after weeks of looking for them, he said, they all started watching Arthur again. Hosea and Dutch, they forgave John, eventually. Too quickly. Abigail threw things, literally and figuratively, and John got real good at ducking whenever he walked into her line of sight. She hurls insults more than anything these days, but he knows to tread lightly around her.

It’s Arthur that John can’t seem to figure out, if the way he barely strings three words together when they’re alone is any indication. The day Arthur and Javier saved him from the wolves, he spoke more than in the months before that, and Arthur wouldn’t be surprised to guess it was because of the pain and the cold shocking him into talking, even if half of it’s fresh hot bullshit.

But that’s fair. Arthur doesn’t know what to say or do, either.

It’s Dutch who drags him out of his thoughts.

“I think you both want that friendship back,” he says, “you just don’t know how.”

Arthur doesn’t answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a) Damn, Arthur, way to be a DICK.  
> b) Dutch pls it's ten in the morning, no philosophy. (Too late.)  
> c) I hope to post the second chapter soon, I gotta get this out of my brain :D
> 
> find me on tumblr, I'm @screwtheprinceimtakingthehorse (I've had that URL for seven whole years, who knew it was gonna come in so handy now)  
> also I have a new twitter: [@grumblewhale](https://twitter.com/grumblewhale)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It always starts with bullets flying — it starts that way, and it’ll end that way, one day; but for now Arthur’s content to know that it isn’t over yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More sad terrible cowboys! I have the whole thing written already, I only spaced out the chapters a little bit to keep the word count even and the progression steady, that's why it's now five ^_^
> 
> A huge thank you to everyone who read the first chapter!! I love this tiny fandom already <3
> 
> made a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/ama_23/playlist/6zlRoE3KQiWlF2UeE08g3C?si=w6LAe10iQAmzwdbLLkg-mQ) because I can't help myself

It always starts with bullets flying — it starts that way, and it’ll end that way, one day; but for now Arthur’s content to know that it isn’t over yet. He’s leaning around the side of the barn they’re using for cover, panting, John at his back and clutching his shotgun the same way Arthur’s doing with his rifle: for dear life. Arthur remembers when they learnt how to shoot straight, learnt to hold their breath and wait, learnt to read the wind in the movements of the tall grass and weeds around them. They learnt it all from Dutch and Hosea, and now they’re on their own, cowering behind a godforsaken barn and hoping their learning doesn’t fail them now. It’s as far from book learning as a man can get.

“You okay?” he shouts over the din.

“Yeah!” John hollers back. “But not for much longer if we don’t get the drop on ‘em.“

Arthur bites back the ‘Thank you, captain,’ that’s made it half-way down his tongue, along with the sarcasm and the reminder of John’s tendency to point out the obvious in a shootout.

A bullet hits the corner of the barn, sending splinters flying, and Arthur rears his head just fast enough not to get his eye gouged out. Why did everything out here have to be made of _wood_? He’s no friend of all that _civilisation_ , but some masonry might just come in handy one of these days. _Don’t let Dutch hear you talk so_ , the little voice in his head warns him, and he unceremoniously shuts it up by firing a shot right into an O’Driscoll’s head.

“Any fucking minute now, Marston!“ he demands. To his surprise, silence greets him. He turns, and sees why: John’s got a match clamped between his teeth, in one hand his shotgun, in the other a goddamned stick of dynamite; maker knew where he’s rustled that up in the chaos. Once the fuse is lit, John spits out the match.

“You got it, Morgan,” John returns without delay, and then lobs the dynamite clean across the yard — next to a nice, tight cluster of gunpowder barrels.

Oh, boy.

They get down and cover their heads.

*

It’s easy, then, to pick off the remaining O’Driscolls that aren’t on fire, screaming, or both, and when Arthur guns down the last one, he’s near to shaking. Still, he reloads his rifle with practised movements, just because he can and because he should, because Dutch taught them never to leave anything to chance — much as Dutch is far too fond of that himself, but in his gang it’s ‘do as I say, not as I do,’ all damned day, and Arthur’s long since given up taking advice from Dutch about what to do at night.

At his side, John’s panting now, too, and leaning back against the barn wall, his eyes closed. But then, he grins, and winces when it pulls at his stitches.

“I know you hate that stuff, but it worked, right?” he opens one eye to look at Arthur, who’s staring back at him with something like wonder on his mind.

“Yeah,” he says, fighting for breath, still or all over again, he doesn’t know, “yeah, it worked.” And John’s reaching for him now, for his arm, pulling him closer, looking at him with both eyes open and a wounded look in them. Arthur goes, like he’s been drugged.

“Wouldn’t let anything happen to you, Arthur,” John murmurs, and perhaps _he’s_ been drugged, for the way he’s looking at him. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” is all Arthur can say, like he’s one of Hosea’s records and the needle’s stuck again. “Yeah, I know.”

John nods, and Arthur clears his throat.

“We should get goin’ back to camp,” he says.

“Yeah,” John agrees, nods, and might be they’re both stuck. But at least they’re agreeing on something, for a change.

*

When they get back to camp, Abigail sets to fussing over John and Dutch to fussing over Arthur; and he feels entirely too old to be made a fuss of, but he lets him. John seems to bear Abigail’s attention with the same ill-mannered grace, over by the fire, it seems — although John probably knows he should be damned grateful, first, that she’s so much as sparing him a glance when he comes back smelling of gunpowder and oil. None of the blood on his shirt’s his this time, though, and be it as it may that Arthur deserves some thanks for that, he won’t have any. That’s got nothing to do with John, he’ll insist, and it’ll be true; for anyone in the gang. Well, he’d happily let Micah grovel in the dirt to express his gratitude, but that stinking cowboy won’t oblige him, this day or the next. Getting him out of jail in Strawberry, Arthur knows that much.

When Dutch finally lets up, Arthur leaves his tent and heads over to where John is sitting by the fire, alone now. Arthur arrives, and looks at him, and John stares back. Neither speaks, until Arthur finally just drops onto the log at John’s side.

The thing is, every time he told John to mind his own business, about Mary, is because he knew he’d get his heart broken all over again — and he did, somehow. It’s what John called after him when he rode off, cursing under his breath, knowing it _was_ a bad idea but too proud to admit it to John, of all people. The trouble is, he learnt something when he saw her again.

He doesn’t love her anymore, he knows that now. And it isn’t just knowing that she wouldn’t have him then and she won’t have him now, he just… he doesn’t, anymore. Somewhere along the way, he lost the hollow in his heart where her smile used to be, and all the reminder he’s got of it is the photograph he keeps with his things, even now. He’s thought about putting it away, or tipping it over, but that would announce to everyone, to _John_ , that they were right.

It’s not Mary herself that did it this time, it’s the pain of being left behind, again; only he’s not thinking of her. All it did, all it does, is remind him of John. The sight of his empty bunk the morning Arthur found him gone, him and his things and his horse. The look in his eyes when he oh so miraculously returned.

But there’s something else.

The night after their last fight, Abigail came to see him. She sat down next to him while he was sketching and writing in his journal, and she waited until he finished the deer he was drawing before speaking.

“I know. He drives me up the wall, too. But I love him. And I know you do, too. Just as much as I do.”

Arthur sighed, his pencil loose between his fingers. “Is that why we’re always raggin’ on ‘im so much?”

She merely put her hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. “He needs you, is all I know. Sometimes I think more than he needs me.”

“That’s not true,” Arthur turned to look at her properly then. “It’s not true.”

Abigail looked at him with a wistful smile. “We both love him, then. How are we going to make him understand it?”

Arthur had no answer to that, either.

And now, he’s sitting with John on a broken trunk, broken heart in his chest and broken words in his head; and he doesn’t know _how_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a) I promised they were gonna kiss behind a barn, but I didn't say it was gonna be THIS barn... muahahahaa. (That's me, always on-brand.)  
> b) ABIGAIL IS THE REAL MVP OF THIS STORY, and don't you forget it.  
> c) John, blowing stuff up: HEY ARTHUR LOOK, AREN'T I COOL? — Arthur: *struggling not to strangle him*


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur throws him a glare of the kind he always seems to have a few to spare when he’s run all out of smiles.
> 
> “You need your head dunked in the river?“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy to know everyone's excited for these dumb butts to get a grip, and also happy to put y'all through the wringer!
> 
> ICYMI: made a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/ama_23/playlist/6zlRoE3KQiWlF2UeE08g3C?si=w6LAe10iQAmzwdbLLkg-mQ) because I can't help myself

Another week, another bounty.

And this time, John’s come with him, because Dutch _asked_ , and when Dutch asks things of them, they do ‘em, no matter how itchy it sets them in their clothes. But five minutes into the ride up to the Grizzlies, Arthur’s almost at peace with it.

Perhaps it’s the sunshine, perhaps it’s the way John’s ridden close and kicks his foot, in his horse’s stirrup, high enough to hit Arthur in the calf. May well be that’s his way of forgiving him, for what he said.

“What?” Arthur still barks, half annoyed already and half pleased — secretly. “Where’d that come from?“ They used to do that, all the time, as kids. Drove Hosea mad, drove Dutch mad, and yet they only ever stopped when they grew out of it naturally.

“Just looked like you needed a kick,” John delivers, and Arthur throws him a glare of the kind he always seems to have a few to spare when he’s run all out of smiles.

“You need your head dunked in the river?“

“If it means you’re finally washing that shirt,” John still won’t give up hassling him, and Arthur shakes his head.

“Bastard,” he grumbles, but it’s fond, and they both know it. (That’s the problem, Arthur thinks. Then, he remembers Abigail’s words, and he’s less certain. _How are we doing to make him understand it?_ )

John’s grinning like he’s won something. Arthur reminds himself why he’s still angry with him.

*

Another week, another O’Driscoll hideout.

It’s Arthur and John, again, and he’s now far past suspecting Dutch’s doing it on purpose. _He’s forcin’ it_ , he thinks to himself, and he’d be preparing to give their esteemed leader a fair piece of his mind if he weren’t currently being shot at. A lot.

John’s on the other side of the lumber yard, and the O’Driscolls have them separated by too much distance to be covered in one sprint. Arthur’s just about to call over when he spots movement between the trees behind John. Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s turning, ignoring the bullets coming from his left, and hefting his rifle up to aim down the sights.

They’re almost too far away — it’s an impossible shot.

He’s going to make it count.

*

“What the hell do you think you were doin’?“ John hollers at him later, when they’ve nearly burnt down the place, all but the barn, and he’s on Arthur and laying his hand on the bloody tear in his jacket before he can get a word in edgewise.

Arthur’s got a mind to kick him.

“He was behind you, in the trees,” he snarls, pointing the way, which proves useless, because John _doesn’t care_ , has never cared how reckless he can be sometimes; and how often that’s set Arthur’s heart to stopping in his chest. “You’re welcome.”

John’s let go of him, and is bunching up his fists and raising them like he wants to try and punch his lights out again, but instead he just lays them against Arthur’s chest, knuckles flat.

“Never,” he pants, and it’s only now Arthur hears he’s breathless, never mind that there hasn’t been any gunfire in a minute, “ _never_ do that again.”

“Oh, so you can go off on your own, nearly freeze to death and get mauled by wolves, but I take one _graze_ while in the business of savin’ your sorry ass—” Arthur’s just about to launch into a tirade satisfying enough to tire even him out of cussing John out for a week, when John gets his hands into his lapels instead; and what he does next is as inexplicable as it is, ultimately, welcome.

His lips have come crashing against Arthur’s, and it’s neither fine nor fair, this kiss, but it is one, for all that John’s damn near biting him, he’s so eager. Arthur, after flailing for what feels like a good ten seconds, lays his hands on John’s arms, holds him fast before he can get the impression he’s pushing him away, and kisses back with what he hopes is gentle pressure, though it’s been so long he may just be missing gentle by a country mile.

“Mmh,” John moans against him, and stays where he is until they both are out of breath worse than before. Only then does he pull away.

“What was that for?“ Arthur mumbles, fighting not to blindly follow that mouth; strange as it feels, so different from a woman’s soft touch, but so right.

“Savin’ me,” John says, and he sounds even raspier than usual.

“John,” Arthur begins, but John’s not done, yet.

“I never need t’ask you to, but you always do. Have done since we were kids, much as no-one’ll believe you were ever young,“ he teases, and Arthur wonders how he finds the time for that. He can barely make sense of the mess that’s inside him, somewhere, if he bothered to look (he has, before, and it’s not a pretty sight). “But it’s not like when we were kids, anymore.“ John’s gone quiet, so are his eyes. “I thought we could go back to the way things were, but I’ve been tryin’ so damn hard and it’s not… and perhaps we can’t. Perhaps we shouldn’t.” His look is hopeful now. “Perhaps I had to go away to understand. An’ perhaps I had to come back to do something about it.”

Arthur’s not rightly sure he can talk now. So he doesn’t, and the next sound John makes against his lips speaks nothing of complaint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a) if your boyfriend's a trigger-happy reckless bastard, clap your hands  
> b) honestly this goes for both of them, much as Arthur likes to pretend he's the sensible one (ok yeah he might be but John still nearly had a heart attack)  
> c) k i s s i n g  
> d) and behind a barn!! see, I promised!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They get back to camp that night, and Dutch takes one look at them, riding in side by side, quiet, not bickering; and nods, as if he’s pleased. As if another of his schemes had finally panned out the way he wanted to. Arthur has half a mind to run him over, but his horse wouldn’t take kindly to it, and neither would John, and he’s somewhat determined not to fuck up their newfound peace ten minutes into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAHHHHHHHH!!
> 
> (and, yes, the chapter count went up, because I had a terrible idea this morning that I just had to write out... and by 'terrible idea,' for once I mean tooth-rotting fluff :'D)

They get back to camp that night, and Dutch takes one look at them, riding in side by side, quiet, not bickering; and nods, as if he’s pleased. As if another of his _schemes_ had finally panned out the way he wanted to. Arthur has half a mind to run him over, but his horse wouldn’t take kindly to it, and neither would John, and he’s somewhat determined not to fuck up their newfound peace ten minutes into the night. It’s enough that he’s got to let John go now, can’t keep him close like he so foolishly wants to.

John may be his idiot, but he ain’t _his_ , Arthur would be the first to tell himself and anyone. So he lets him go with a clap on the shoulder — which he’s sure is taken note of by all present, and silently curses himself — and then goes to deposit what funds they got from the lumber yard and sign the ledger.

“That’s my boy!” Dutch calls, as he always does, and Tilly, who happens to be standing nearby, sends him a grateful smile.

“Sure thing,” Arthur rumbles, uncomfortable ‘cause it feels like they’re all looking at him for a different reason; like they know. Like they know that that anger he’s carried for so long is gone, or near to it. Such a long time, he was angry — on behalf of Abigail, and the boy; and there’s a part he used to keep carefully locked away that was angry for himself, too. Dutch would chide him for it, but it was just so much easier to remind John of how much he hurt Dutch and Hosea than admit how much he hurt Arthur.

But he’s gone and done it now, he thinks, with the way he kissed John the second time, and the third, searching and, blessed be the Dakota River, finding the same desperation, an echo of his own in how it seemed to shudder first through him, and next through John. They’ve both gone and done it now.

*

The day after, he hears John join Abigail in the women’s tent, heard him asking her how things are going. Her answer is terse, but she doesn’t stop John from sitting down by her; and Arthur turns to leave before anyone catches him snooping in what isn’t his business.

He rides out, he collects another bounty, and he manages not to think about John for stretches of five minutes at a time; and not at all when there’s bandits shooting at him. He can’t afford to let himself get distracted, not here, not while they’re trying their damnedest to keep their noses clean and their tents in order. Pressure’s higher than it’s ever been, and Dutch’s doing his best not to let on, but Arthur’s sure he knows that they need to get moving again soon. The noose is getting tighter, and they all know it; they’ve all been at it long enough that they can smell it. Hell, even Sadie can, and it’s barely been a summer with them.

It’s high time. But they’re not moving yet.

*

Another couple weeks pass, and what passes between John and Arthur are longing glances of the kind that are barely kept a secret from adults all living in close quarters; but they must manage, because no-one says a word and no-one questions them when Dutch’s request to go on a job _together_ is met with what could pass for friendliness from Arthur and careful silence from John.

The ride is quiet, and so’s the job, and when they’re done it’s afternoon and Arthur fetches the bow Charles gave him from his saddle and nudges John into following him. Together, they stalk and catch two reasonably-sized deer, and skin them right there in the grass by the riverbank. They roll up the pelts and harvest what meat they can carry. They leave the rest for the wolves and move on to be out of the way of their howling and teeth.

They stop by an abandoned barn — why’s it always a barn, Arthur thinks — and search the equally abandoned farm house, taking what’s left that’s worth stuffing into their saddlebags. Arthur’s done with his side of the room first, and walks over to John to see if he needs a hand. Just then John bends down to search the cupboard, and if that doesn’t send a lewd thought or three through Arthur’s head that he’s better off not having — the thoughts, that is, not the head. He’s rather attached to that. Then again, turns out, as he’s watching John right himself again and stretch up to search the cupboard overhead, that he’s more than a little attached to those thoughts as well.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he’s stepped up behind John, crowding him; and it’s only down to their familiarity that John doesn’t pull a knife on him. Arthur sets his hands on John’s waist, high up enough to be respectable and yet anything but; and John must know. He must, because he doesn’t tense; instead he leans back into him, arches into his touch, while he’s still stowing a can of beans in his satchel. It makes Arthur bold, and he tucks his face into the crook of John’s neck, nosing at the warm skin there.

John’s hand finds his cheek first, then his fingers are in Arthur’s hair, careful pressure keeping him where he is.

“Arthur,” he murmurs, and perhaps it sounds like a question because Arthur wants it to be one. Doesn’t want to be a foregone conclusion, for all that he knows he is. He’s opened himself wide, to John Marston of all people, who’s back to reading him like a book just like he used to, before. And his regard is as obvious to him, to both of them, as anything else has ever been; even if it took him over a year of misery and river muck to understand it.

This might be their only opportunity for a while — hell, it might be their only opportunity; if things go the way they’ve gone the past six months. And Arthur’s not above admitting he’s all out of patience.

“John,” he growls against his throat, leaning forward to nuzzle his jaw. He’s pressed against John’s back, like this, and there can be no mistaking his intent. John, to his credit, is quick on the uptake.

“Don’t have much time,” he warns, pushing back into Arthur, seeking perhaps not so much warmth, seeing it’s the height of summer and they’re dressed down as far as they can, but friction.

“Better start with you, then,” Arthur rumbles, hands sliding lower almost of their own accord.

“Doesn’t the saying go ‘age before beauty?’” John says with a teasing smile, and Arthur pinches his hip in retaliation.

“That’s enough out of you,” Arthur decides, and while John’s still laughing lowly, grasps his hips properly and turns him around, then pushes him back against the cupboard. “I’ll show you age before beauty.” Before John can ask how he’s going to best him, exactly, Arthur’s kissing him.

John sighs against him, melts into his touch, his arms wrapping around Arthur’s shoulders. Pressing closer, Arthur deepens the kiss, coaxing John into opening up for him with a flick of his tongue, to see if he can draw more noises out of him than the ones he already knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a) IDIOTS. All of them.  
> b) hue hue hue naughty stuff  
> c) I wrote the "he's quite attached to [his head]" line and messaged my friend like "help me Arthur Morgan's a dork"  
> d) also what if Abigail asked John if Arthur's a good kisser and he went as red as his stupid shirt


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Jesus,” Arthur pants when he can think again. Old fool, he thinks: standing up, in a dusty, abandoned house, and it’s damn near the best he ever had. He ducks his head to kiss John one more time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU all for reading and commenting and being lovely!!

Turns out, he can — and turns out, John Marston is anything but quiet.

“Jesus,” Arthur pants when he can think again. _Old fool,_ he thinks: standing up, in a dusty, abandoned house, and it’s damn near the best he ever had. He ducks his head to kiss John one more time. He wants to make it last, _one more for the road_ , but John pulls away far too early for his liking, and his eyes are skittish.

“What’s wrong?“ Arthur asks softly, because he’s just in the mood for kid gloves when he usually never is.

“It’s… Abigail,” John comes out with it eventually. “I—I don’t want to leave without her, Arthur.”

“Then make her yours, if she’ll have you,” Arthur tells him easily, and perhaps he can because he loves him _too_ much; more than he ever loved Mary Linton or any other filly he’s laid eyes on in this darned life, spent half on horseback and half counting bullets. He doesn't mention that he may have something to help. With the proposal.

“And what about you?” John asks with hurt in his eyes. Those eyes Arthur’s thought about drawin’ so many times.

“I’ll be wherever you want me to be.” And he means it. He draws his thumb over John’s unmarred cheek, thinks about doing the same to the scarred side. He likes those scars. “John… if this is all we have—”

“Shh,” John quiets him, and leans up for a kiss, “hush.” He emphasises the word with another brush of lips. “Abigail might have… said things.” He’s shy again now, his eyes flickering back and away again. “‘Bout you… bein’ there.”

Arthur’s hands tighten on John’s waist. He can’t help it. Won’t. “Did she now,“ he attempts to drawl, but he’s afraid it comes out sounding like a badger with a cough, his throat’s so tight.

“Said I’m better, with you there,” John explains. “I think she knows.”

This has Arthur chuckling, before a somewhat peeved look from John shuts him up.

“You think, darlin’?“ It’s out, the endearment, before he can quit it, and seeing the look in John’s eyes then, he wouldn’t want to for all the world. “She may have said somethin’ to me, too,” he relents. “Still don’t know what it means, entirely, though.”

“Guess we gotta ask her,” John says, amusement in his voice.

“Guess we gotta ask her,” Arthur echoes, feeling his eyes crinkle in a smile; then he leans in close again. They’ll be missed eventually, and he intends to make the most of it.

*

In the end, it all comes crashing down.

Perhaps it had to.

They make it out, the four of them, and neither’s got any idea how. Certainly not Jack, who’s sleeping in Arthur’s lap, dead to the world, still half in shock and worn out from all the panic. Running’s been hard on the boy, and Arthur’s sorry for everyone who didn’t make it, but sorriest of all for the little kid who had no say in any of it.

John’s driving the cart they commandeered somewhere a dozen miles back, Abigail beside him, leaning heavily against his shoulder.

“You alright back there, Arthur?” John asks without turning around.

Arthur adjusts his hold on Jack, tucks Abigail’s shawl in tighter around him.

“We’re fine,“ he says. “Keep drivin’.”

So they do — they drive, and drive, and drive, and don’t stop for anything.

*

It’s only for a while, they said, when John and Abigail found a house; bought it with the money from the ledger, every last cent they had in the camp that John got his hands on _somehow_. Only for a while, just long enough for Arthur to get his feet back under him, and then he’d be on his way. Only, a while turns into weeks into months, and he’s still sleeping in the tiny spare room. He and John run jobs together — legal work, now, as good as they can make it — and when they’re home, they get up early and chop wood for the fire, and come back in when Abigail calls for them, chiding them to take off their dusty boots. John kisses her cheek and Arthur sets a grateful hand on her shoulder when she pours them coffee fresh off the stove, and they take turns rustling Jack out of bed when the sun’s up over the mountains.

Jack still calls him ‘Uncle Arthur,’ and he only asks about his Uncle Dutch and Uncle Hosea sometimes, as though he’s as happy to forget as they are. John and Arthur can’t forget, though, and sometimes they sit out on the porch, sharing a bottle of whiskey and concentrating on not talking. Other times, they find themselves behind the barn, where only the horses can see, and there Arthur kisses John, bowed under the knowledge that they only made it out by the skin of their teeth. He’s nearly lost him, again.

One night, they’re getting ready for bed, Abigail in the bathroom, John in the master bedroom, and Arthur in the spare room. Jack’s already fast asleep, Arthur’s just looked in on him to check, and it’s when he steps back into the hallway that he sees Abigail in the open bathroom door, brushing out her hair, and John standing in the door to the master bedroom. Arthur stops, feels like they’re waiting for something or perhaps he should be, only he doesn’t have the faintest idea what.

But then Abigail smiles at John, and John steps forward, and ere Arthur can do or say anything to ruin the moment, as he’s wont to do, John’s moved in close to kiss him.

“Good night,” he says quietly, his hand on Arthur’s chest.

Arthur just nods, a little dumb. John ducks his head, and turns back into the bedroom. Next, Abigail shuts the bathroom door, lantern in hand, and levers herself up with a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. She pecks his cheek, scruffy from a few days of not shaving.

“Night, Arthur.”

“G’night,” he wishes softly.

She enters the bedroom after John, the door closing behind her; except she leaves it a little ajar. Arthur stares for a moment, and then turns to make his way to his own room. Just perhaps… he can stay a while longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna super ignore whatever sad ending there will be  
> and Arthur's gonna be John's live-in boyfriend and Jake's devoted uncle and Abigail's more sensible, platonic back-up husband for when John gets a bee in his bonnet about somethin’ and THAT’S IT


	6. Chapter 6 (Bonus)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur's riding the long road down home, alone. He's done this job on his own, John already busy with another bounty that needed chasing down. He urges his horse into going faster, passing carriages and transports. Not long now.
> 
> He's been gone two weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here there be fluff and also some naughty things... I wrote this on my commute to work Wednesday morning, and I regret nothing
> 
> chapter 5 was supposed to have been the ending, but of course I couldn't rein in this plot bunny once it'd started hopping... so here's a bonus chapter! hugs and hearts to everyone who's been reading along!! this has been a wonderful cowboy week! I'll go and focus more on my Dishonored stuff again now, but I'm sure I'll be writing more RDR, come the time ^_^

Arthur's riding the long road down home, alone. He's done this job on his own, John already busy with another bounty that needed chasing down. He urges his horse into going faster, passing carriages and transports. Not long now.

He's been gone two weeks.

He fancies he can see the house from a mile away, and can barely believe the way his heart beats faster when he does. When he arrives at the homestead, he makes no secret of it.

“Ehyo!” he calls, tugging at his horse’s reins to slow it down. He's been near galloping for a mile. It's Jack who shoots out the door first, as if he's been waiting by the window.

“Uncle Arthur!” he hollers, loud enough to wake the dead, clearly taking after this father. “You're back!”

The boy's five now, growing like a weed; and Arthur's out of the saddle just fast enough to catch him when he launches himself at him to hug him tight.

“I missed you,” Jack says, his arms wrapped around Arthur's neck; and it's different from when he and John are both gone for a few days sometimes.

Arthur ruffles the boy's hair and answers, “Missed you, too, kid.”

“Jack, you're suffocating the poor man,” Abigail now chides; and Arthur raises his gaze to see her emerging from the house together with John. She's smiling, though, and seems just as glad to see him. Arthur's eyes flicker to John just behind her, whose eyes in turn seem fixed on him. Jack shows no sign of letting go, but Arthur can at least shift him to hold him on his hip; and Jack lays his head down on his shoulder from the side. Arthur steps forward, closer, greeting Abigail first, who lays her hand on his free shoulder. He leans down, questioning, and still smiling she accepts a kiss on the cheek.

“It's good to have you home, Arthur,” she says.

John steps up to him, then, and before Arthur can say a word, John's drawn him down by the bandana around his neck, and bestowed a kiss on his lips that's sweeter than any honey and still sends heat coiling tight in Arthur's gut. He presses back, just a little, remembers not to close his eyes ere he get lost in it; and then they both withdraw.

“Welcome home, Arthur,” John murmurs, lets go of him slowly, and Arthur’s left to wondering whether it's truly the fast ride that left his legs like willows.

“What about me?” Jack then complains from his shoulder, and Arthur nearly jumps a foot in the air. He's got no time to think now, though, before turning to look at Jack, who's pouting and frowning and looking for all the world as though they just told him that there'll never be pancakes for breakfast again.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Arthur says as demurely as he can without laughing, or swallowing his tongue, and lays an exaggerated, raspberry peck against the boy's cheek that has him giggling, both at the noise it makes and at Arthur's stubble as it tickles. He looks back at John, and finds him grinning at them.

Abigail tugs on his arm, then, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow.

“Let's get you inside and cleaned up,” she says as she begins leading them all into the house. “And you can tell us all about what you were doing that kept you from us so long.”

*

That night, John joins Arthur in his bed — just wide enough for two, if they keep close, and Arthur's long started to wonder that was by design; though no-one said anything when they moved into the homestead after spending a week or two fixin’ it up last year.

Arthur's stopped questioning these nights, won't look a gift horse in the mouth any more than he would the barrel of a gun without a damn good reason. They're kissing, slow and deep, and Arthur's undoing the buttons on John's shirt. After the bath he drew earlier, Arthur's taken to sleeping shirtless, glad to be out of his clothes, and John thanks him for it by letting calloused hands roam his broad chest and waist. He's straddling Arthur, and they both know where this'll end before long. Arthur doesn't ask if Abigail’s asleep; because he's got no doubt John's already made amends for this night's absence in the weeks Arthur's been away, and made amends well. For all that he manages to talk himself into trouble more often than not, John's tongue is a gifted one when he remembers how to shut up, Arthur has learnt by now.

He reaches down to where he stowed his pack in a hurry earlier. He'll wash his clothes tomorrow; preferring to help with the load rather than letting Abigail do it all as he supposes is John's privilege as her wedded husband.

Inside, he's still reeling. John kissed him — in front of Abigail _and_ Jack. Sure, the boy’s bound to have seen Lenny make pretty eyes at Sean from a mile away all last year, but still. Yet caught in his thoughts, he produces the little tin with grease, and hands it to John, who opens it.

“It's half empty,” he rasps.

“It's been lonely nights out there,” Arthur drawls, bucking his hips up a little to jostle John into moving, but of course the man's got other ideas. He leans down and kisses Arthur, long and possessive, who gives as good as he gets before he gives in. He always does.

*

It’s another week later that Arthur’s woken by someone creeping into his room. Arthur’s a heavier sleeper now than he was at the camp, but a small hand is nudging his shoulder and he hears the telltale sniffle of a boy trying not to cry, and he’s awake in seconds. He sits up, still trying to clear the cobwebs, and doesn’t bother with the small gas lamp on the end table; the moonlight streaming in will have to do.

“Jack?” he rumbles, and that small hand finds his, holding on.

“I had a nightmare, Uncle Arthur,” the boy whispers. “About… about the camp.”

Arthur doesn’t have to ask to understand that it’s not so much about the camp than about when everything went wrong. He gently squeezes Jack’s hand. “It’s alright now,” he promises, “you’re safe.“

Jack nods, but Arthur senses that’s not all.

“Do you wanna tell me more about your dream?“ he asks, rubbing at his eyes to wake himself up a little, so he can listen properly. But Jack shakes his head. Won’t say anything else, either, though. “Wanna go back to bed? Or stay here?” Arthur offers, fast running out of options.

Jack shakes his head again, but this time he tugs at Arthur’s hand. When Arthur looks at him questioningly, he tugs harder; and finally Arthur understands he’s meant to get up. So he pushes back the covers and does as he’s told, still holding onto Jack’s hand to reassure him. Without a word, the boy starts pulling him along and he follows, confusion mounting but he holds his peace.

Jack drags him along, past his own door and towards the master bedroom. Ah, so Arthur’s supposed to smuggle him into his parents’ bed — that, he can do. He nods, and reaches for Jack, who lets himself be picked up. Quietly, Arthur opens the door, padding inside and avoiding the creaky step.

He makes it as far as the bed on silent steps; but perhaps John’s not fully asleep, or sensed him coming, because he turns his head and looks up at them, Arthur looming above the bed with Jack in his arms.

John makes a querying sound, and Arthur shrugs.

“Jack’s had a nightmare,“ he whispers.

“Oh,” makes John, and shifts to leave some room between him and Abigail, who’s stirring now, too. So much for the stealth mission, Arthur thinks.

He heaves Jack up a little and into the middle of the bed, but when he sets him down and moves to pull away, Jack lets out a distressed little, “No!”

Arthur, returned to his state of confusion, hovers awkwardly above John and waits. “Huh?” is all he can ask, for fear of waking Abigail completely, who’s had trouble sleeping herself these past nights.

“Stay,” Jack whispers.

“Uh,” Arthur says eloquently. John barely moves, but before he can say anything, Abigail sets her hand on Arthur’s forearm where it’s still stretched out towards the boy.

“Stay, Arthur,“ she mumbles into her pillow. Arthur looks to John, their eyes now adjusted to the low light, and they exchange first a glance, then a shrug. Arthur nods to Jack, who settles, satisfied that his plea has been heard, and straightens up.

“How?” he asks vaguely, and gestures. John shrugs again, and then shifts towards the middle of the bed, taking Jack with him, who is received by Abigail’s open arms. He burrows into his mother, and John follows, then pats the mattress beside him.

It’s a tight fit, three adults and a kid, but somehow Arthur joining them doesn’t send Abigail tumbling out on the other side. He even gets a share of the covers from John, who presses his back against Arthur’s chest for a moment, firm and sure. Arthur curves one arm under his head and lays the other across John’s waist, meeting Jack and Abigail on the other side; and he tucks his face into John’s shoulder.

This is it, then, he thinks. This is his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a) ARTHUR IS BEST AFFECTIONATE UNCLE  
> b) and you best believe John is kissing his man when he gets back after being gone for so long <3  
> c) toxic masculinity whomst??  
> d) at some point they might wanna explain to Jack not to tell random strangers "my Papa kisses Uncle Arthur just like Mama," but then again who gives a rancid fuck (not me)


End file.
